Free Sacred Treason by James Forrester

floor. “Through that window? The only one you have left unblocked?”
    Gray remained silent.
    â€œThomas,” called Clarenceux, not taking his eyes off the guard.
    Thomas stepped forward. Clarenceux took the crowbar and unwrapped it.
    â€œSir!” Gray shouted, drawing his sword, “I must caution you not to try to open—”
    Clarenceux put a firm hand on Gray’s arm and pushed him backward. The lad stumbled.
    â€œSir, I have orders to arrest anyone who tries to make contact with those inside.”
    â€œAnyone?” demanded Clarenceux, taking his hand off the young man. “Anyone? What about the apothecary’s man who will bring them dragonwater and methridatum? What about the women who will nurse them in their final agony? What about the priest? Have you no pity? You would arrest such God-fearing good people, would you?”
    â€œYes, sir, I would.”
    â€œWell then, you’ll have to arrest me too,” Clarenceux declared, stepping right up into Gray’s face and grabbing his sword wrist. He toyed with the idea of forcing the lad to drop his blade but then decided that would only injure his pride. He let go, carefully. If the guard had been serious, he would have gone for his dagger by now. He was too young, too worried.
    Clarenceux saw he had silenced the boy and lifted the crowbar. He turned to the door. He fixed it under the topmost plank and began to lever it away.
    â€œSir, I order you to desist,” said Gray.
    Clarenceux did not even turn around. “Thomas!” he shouted, continuing to pull at the plank. Thomas stepped forward, looked the guard in the eye, and slowly raised a finger to his lips. Gray saw Thomas’s lined old face and the iron determination plainly visible beneath the wry smile.
    The first plank came away easily and soon Clarenceux was levering the second. A couple of sharp wrenches, and soon that too was joined to the frame only by a single nail. Soon all four planks were lying in the street and the door was clear.
    Clarenceux took the crowbar and swung it against the oak door. It thudded.
    â€œHenry Machyn! Goodwife Machyn! John!” he yelled up at the front of the house. “Are any of you at home?”
    No answer.
    Again Clarenceux hammered on the door with the crowbar and shouted. More shutters and windows up and down the street opened.
    He set the edge of the crowbar in the doorframe and pulled. It did not give way. He pulled harder and harder, testing his weight against the wood, putting his foot against the timber frame of the door. After a few seconds, there was a loud crack and the nails holding one of the oak timbers of the door came out, allowing the plank to break out of the frame, into the house. He quickly moved the crowbar to the split and pressed the loosened plank further back inside.
    He had to work fast. The crowd behind him was growing. They would attract the attention of the authorities. He pushed the head of his crowbar through the gap in the door and shoved the split plank to one side.
    He looked through the gap: there was nothing to be seen inside, just the shadowy entrance corridor. He put his mouth to the gap in the door and shouted.
    â€œHenry! Goodwife Machyn! This is William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms. If you are within, reply. Tell me if you are here.”
    Nothing.
    Clarenceux turned. Thomas was still standing between him and the guard. People were leaning out of the windows, watching. More were arriving. The spy was there too, standing at the edge of the crowd. Including the people in the houses, Clarenceux had now about a hundred witnesses.
    He stepped toward the guard. “Tell me: do you answer to a man called Richard Crackenthorpe?”
    The guard did not reply.
    â€œTell him Godspeed from me, Goodman Gray,” said Clarenceux, putting a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder before he walked away.

15
    Noon had passed. Clarenceux had been poring over the chronicle for